


Rain

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Intimacy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sharing a Bed, Slash, Testing the Waters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>On ffn, this chapter is posted as a separate story entitled "Looks Like Rain" but I felt it worked better as one complete story.</p><p>Also, I know now that Martin Freeman has blue eyes but when I started writing I could not for the life of me find out what colour they were.  I went with brown because it's more common.  I see John as a more of a brown puppy dog eyes kind of man anyway, so I've kept it.</p></blockquote>





	1. Pouring

What he remembered most from that day was the rain.  Not hard but pervasive, so that his thick hair was weighted down against his head, dripping bitter droplets down his neck.  An umbrella was useless against the insistent dampness, hands buried in the pockets somehow became cold and water-wrinkled.  Raindrops streaked down cheeks, along the sides of noses, where perhaps real tears may have been – for some – if not for the shock.

The Thames was the same colour as the sky and there was no longer any demarcation between the two.  On the other side of the water, invisible through the mist and haze, were the words “Traitor’s Gate” painted in glaring white on the walls of the river.  No longer an opening but the lines of it were still easily visible when one was close enough.

On this side of the river, in this private area of the rain, a group of them staring down at the body whose blank eyes sought the sky but could not find it.  Moisture pooled on dead skin, replacing her tears as well, sitting in perfect round bubbles along her eyelashes, on her blue lips.

A vivid splash of red across her chest had been muted by the river’s rage.

But what he remembered most was the rain.

And John, throwing up. 

“She’s been in there less than a day,” the doctor managed, unable to look up, unwilling to stand.

“We may still be able to get something from forensics, then,” Lestrade sighed.

“We know who did this,” Sherlock said shortly.  “No matter what you find on her, it will come back to him.”

Lestrade gave him a hard look but Sherlock met it levelly.

“Why her?” the inspector asked, giving up the silent battle after only a moment.

“He’s sending us a message.  He’s sending me a message.”

 _“That was not nice, Sherlock!”  John had snapped.  It had gone unremarked upon until much later._

 _“Why not?”_

 _A long, tired look from a former army doctor.  It seemed centuries old, that look._

 _“How can someone so perceptive be so blind?” he demanded, throwing his hands in the air.  “She’s in love with you, Sherlock.”_

He turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade demanded.

“You don’t need me,” he tossed over his shoulder.  “Jim Moriarty killed her and dumped her in the river yesterday, as John said.  Wherever he did this, he won’t have left anything on her to tell us.”

He turned away again then paused.  Something was different this time, something missing or not quite right.  His fingertips were starting to feel numb now and he wished for a cup of tea to warm them.

Sherlock turned back again.  Nothing seemed to have changed.  Molly’s body lay on the nearly frozen, muddy ground, mist curling over blue-white skin.  Lestrade was standing over her as if this could somehow protect her, even now.  A police detective he didn’t know was staring down at the body, crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet, her silent radio in one hand.  John had his head in his hands, unmoving. 

“John,” Sherlock said carefully, crouching down next to his friend.  “Are you all right?”


	2. Looks Like Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On ffn, this chapter is posted as a separate story entitled "Looks Like Rain" but I felt it worked better as one complete story.
> 
> Also, I know now that Martin Freeman has blue eyes but when I started writing I could not for the life of me find out what colour they were. I went with brown because it's more common. I see John as a more of a brown puppy dog eyes kind of man anyway, so I've kept it.

The sugar tin had not moved from its place in three weeks, save for one time John had washed and refilled it.

Sherlock had checked every morning, expecting it to go missing once more. After four days, he'd been surprised. On the fifth day, when it remained steadfastly in its proper place, he'd been annoyed. On the sixth day, he'd been something else. Something more than annoyed.

Disappointed.

It was ridiculous.

He did _not_ want to chase John around the flat trying to get the bloody sugar back just so he could have a proper cuppa and the doctor could snicker about his absurd little games that amounted to nothing.

Sherlock had more important things to do.

He was far too intelligent to waste time on nonsense like hide-and-seek puzzles with a small red tin and John's fairly limited imagination.

Although, truth be known, Sherlock didn't know where John would have hidden the tin if he'd taken it again, since he hadn't taken it.

Perhaps he'd have found some quite clever hiding places.

But the sugar tin had not moved.

Each day after that when Sherlock found it where it should be, he felt a tiny stab of regret that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He tried reasoning with himself, but there was just something vaguely disappointing about John having given up, or simply quit.

Had he got what he’d wanted? Is that why he'd stopped?

Certainly, John had been acting more like John lately. Whatever had been bothering him seemed to have cleared up – perhaps he'd dealt with it on his own, which Sherlock preferred. He didn't want to get dragged into his flatmate's petty emotional entanglements. He had neither the time nor the desire.

So he'd been wrong about what he'd seen in John's expression the two times the sugar had gone missing – all right, the one time the tin had been empty and John had forgotten to buy more and the one time John had actually nicked it.

He was wrong occasionally. It did happen.

It was better when Mycroft didn't know about it, at least. Sherlock kept the flat clean of cameras and bugs, but only through persistent effort. He enjoyed mailing whatever he found back to Mycroft, at Mycroft's expense.

Lately he'd been finding fewer, although he wasn't certain why.

He wasn't used to being wrong though – not about reading people.

Why was John so damnably complex? He seemed so simple on the surface – so many people were – but there was more to him. Whenever Sherlock thought he'd figured the doctor out, John surprised him with something. It was generally fascinating, but right now it was tiresome.

At least he wasn't being distracting anymore.

So Sherlock could work properly.

Blinking, he realized he’d been staring at the page in front of him for five minutes, arguing with himself about sugar and John.  Five minutes of immobility – it was a good thing John was used to that, or he'd have to explain himself.

_What?  Why?_

He didn't have to explain himself to John, even when John did press him for details. He was just working. Thinking. He needed to concentrate.

He refocused his mind on the puzzle in front of him, some laughably simple cipher Lestrade had provided – or it would have been laughably simple if his brain would cooperate and not chase itself around with these mundane and useless thoughts.

Sherlock bit his lip, bending over the problem, scratching something on the sheet of paper next to his right hand, then something else on the sheet of paper in front of him.

Why had John thrown up when they'd found Molly's body?

He stopped, staring blankly at the pages in front of him.

That still made no sense. Sherlock had considered this for two months now and was unable to arrive at a conclusion. John hadn't known Molly very well at all, so he couldn't have been close to her, and it wasn't as though she was the first murder victim he'd seen, not by far.

He had been acting very strange about it.

Then something clicked in Sherlock's mind.

That was why John had been acting odd.

But _why_? Why over that? Surely he wasn't that upset – no more than anyone would normally be over the untimely death of an acquaintance.

That wasn't quite true, was it? He'd thrown up when they'd fished her body out of the river.

 _That was two months ago_ , Sherlock told himself severely. _Quite irrelevant now._

He forced his attention to the symbols; extremely competent calligraphy, lovingly crafted, unusual apart from the use of code and the tiny blood splatter in the top left hand corner.

He picked up his magnifying glass and held it just above the parchment, running his hand carefully over the letters.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped, but recovered by throwing down his magnifying glass in disgust and looking up with narrowed eyes.

"What?" he demanded.

John gave him a puzzled look.

"You all right?" he enquired.

"I'd be fine, if you'd let me work," Sherlock replied coolly. "I need to concentrate, not be distracted by your petty questions regarding my mental state."

John gave him a look that made something in Sherlock's stomach twist, just a bit.

He looked hurt.

Hurt? Why would he be hurt? Sherlock was just stating his need to work.  If he didn't make himself clear, John might try to distract him with suggestions about eating or going to do some tedious chore, as if Sherlock needed to be dragged along to do that.

"I'm just going to the shops," John sighed. "Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"A duck," Sherlock replied promptly, suddenly realising what was so strange about the calligraphic cipher.

"A duck?" John asked, arching an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "What are you going to do, test if someone is a witch?"

Sherlock gave him a long look.

"What in the world are you talking about?" he enquired coolly.

John waved a hand.

"Never mind. I thought you were making a joke. It's a Monty Python thing. You do know Monty Python, right?"

"I'm happy to say I've never seen any of their so-called work," Sherlock retorted and John's expression shuttered for a moment. "I need feathers, John. To make a quill."

"A quill?"

"Yes, a quill! This was written using a quill, which is why the writing is so unusual. Whoever wrote this was quite a good calligrapher, but was hampered by inadequate equipment; namely, a basic quill."

"I didn't know duck feathers were used as quills," John said.

"Generally not," Sherlock agreed. "Larger birds like swans or geese are preferable, but this was smaller. Too small. A duck’s feather. That's what he was writing with, I'm certain."

John rolled his eyes.

"I'll see what I can do."

"There's a taxidermist in– "

"Not going to a taxidermist for you, Sherlock," John cut in, pulling the door open. "I'll see if I can't catch you a pigeon or something."

"I don't need a pigeon!" Sherlock snapped as the door closed behind John. He opened his mouth to yell after his flatmate, then shut it again.

He waited until he heard the front door close and a minute had passed before tossing his pen away from him in disgust and dropping his head into his hands.

Really, this was unacceptable.

A minute later, he recomposed himself as John came back to fetch his umbrella.

"Looks like rain," John commented.

"It's _London_ , John," Sherlock replied, refusing to look up from the work he was not at all doing.

"Right, always rainy, absolutely," John agreed dryly and Sherlock avoided the weary look he was certain he was receiving. John left again and Sherlock forced himself to actually work for three full minutes before giving up and leaning back in his seat.

He pushed himself to his feet with an irate huff and set about stalking about the flat, moving things here and there when they caught his eye and he didn't like their locations.

This was too much, it really was.

He had work that needed to be done.

But why had John thrown up?

And why had he stopped moving the tea sugar?

Sherlock strode into the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard where the tea was kept.

There was the sugar tin; red with a green-and-yellow tartan pattern, sitting innocently on the shelf. Precisely where it should be. Sherlock glared at it, as if defying it to disappear, but it remained resolutely solid and present.

He shut the cupboard and went back to work.

John was not gone nearly long enough. He came back with shopping and Chinese food for himself, which Sherlock ignored even though the smell was enticing and made his stomach want to rumble. He ordered his body to obey him – he didn't eat while working because it slowed him down, and he certainly had more say over his eating patterns than his mindless stomach did.

"You didn't close the fridge door properly," Sherlock commented, not looking up from his work when John came in, adjusting the desk lamp to better illuminate the parchment. The day outside was gloomy – it did in fact look as though it might rain, and a heavy storm was in the forecast for the following morning.

"What?" John asked.

"You didn't close the fridge door properly," Sherlock repeated. "I can hear the motor clicking on and off more frequently. It's driving me mad."

"Why didn't you get up and close it then?" John asked. He didn't sound upset, but patient. Tolerant. Amused? Surely he wouldn't be amused? Sherlock risked glancing up.

Yes.

Amused.

His brown eyes were twinkling, as though he was expecting this or something like it. As though he could predict Sherlock's actions?

No, that was absurd.

But the amusement was there.

"I was working," Sherlock said simply and turned his attention back to it – or at least pretended to.

"Right," John said with a smile, taking his shopping into the kitchen. Sherlock listened to him put everything away and close the fridge door properly then hurriedly resumed his appearance of working when John came back and settled himself into his favourite chair, opening his take-away.

"How's it coming?"

"All the better if you don't bother me," Sherlock replied, but there was less bite in his voice than he would have preferred. He frowned at himself – this was no way to get results.

But John let him be and, after several minutes, Sherlock managed to sneak a glance. He was reading, eating absently from the take-away container.

Ignoring him.

No, not ignoring him, just not paying attention to him.

 _Good_ , Sherlock thought. _That's what I want._

So why did he feel slightly let down?

With an inward growl, he went back to work.

After some time, John stood and stretched.

"I'm going to read upstairs for awhile. Good night. Try and get some sleep, will you?"

Sherlock only grunted in return, listening as John binned his take-away container and went to his room, the wooden floorboards creaking here and there under his weight. He moved around his bedroom for a few minutes, footsteps soft but audible, before re-emerging a while later to go to the bathroom.

Sherlock kept working.

John went back to his room and Sherlock got up after a while, frustrated, and fished out his violin case, setting it on the table. He opened it carefully and drew out the instrument, checking the tension on the strings and cleaning the bow. Then he settled the violin against his left shoulder and began to play.

He closed his eyes, seeing an image of the cipher against his eyelids and read it, or at least looked at it, without the distraction of anything else in the flat. He was close, so close. The music helped focus him.

John was listening.

If John were reading, he'd have moved at least somewhat on the bed, which would have made the old floorboards creak in response. But there had been no sound, not even the click of the light turning off.

So he was sitting still. Not moving so that he could better listen.

Sherlock stopped playing and glared at the stairs, putting his violin away hurriedly.

Damn that man.

He flopped into his chair, raking his fingers through his curls, glaring at the ceiling.  When the silence provided no answers, he went back to work, hunched over the parchment, tapping the end of his pen on his lips. This should have been done by now, he told himself. Lestrade would be displeased. But Lestrade was always displeased, so that wasn't really a problem. And no one else had realized the writing had been done using a quill, which was unusual in and of itself, and a feather from a bird not normally used to make quills.

He felt like John was watching him.

Sherlock glanced up – but of course not, he was alone. John was upstairs. He heard the click of the lamp now and shifting of the floorboards as John settled down to sleep.

Good, now Sherlock could really concentrate.

But why had John thrown up when they'd found Molly?

The pen stopped against Sherlock's lips and he narrowed his eyes.

No, he'd really have to stop this.

He pushed himself to his feet, almost instinctively going for the violin again, but hesitated, because John had just fallen asleep.

Sherlock froze, his hand hovering over the case, staring at nothing.

Since when had he ever consented not to play his violin? Never. Not for anyone.

Anyone but John.

He thought of Charles.

Not really of Charles himself, the look that Charles had given him the first time they'd met, almost the same look he'd seen in John's eyes, but more muted. Restrained. Uncertain.

But that was ridiculous. As far as Sherlock knew, John had no interest in men.

And why would John be interested in him? Sherlock had told him that he was married to his work and meant it – despite the fact that said work now lay abandoned and mostly forgotten on the table next to him.

Besides, no one could stand to be around him for long periods of time without being annoyed. He'd only got on with Charles so well because they hadn't actually tried to get on at all. Charles had helped him to improve the fluency of his French, but only because Charles had taken it as a personal affront that Sherlock's French had been so bad. He'd never expected anything from Charles and nor had Charles from Sherlock, so it had worked.

Sherlock had never expected anything from John, either, save for someone to pay half the rent, which wasn't really necessary. He'd actually assumed John would become exasperated and leave or at least try to avoid being caught in Sherlock's cases. After all, John had only moved in so he could live in London proper and afford it.

But he hadn't moved out.

And he hadn't avoided working with Sherlock.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. What was worse – or better? – was that Sherlock enjoyed having John around, both in the flat and on the job.

Sherlock stalked away into his bedroom and simply stood, uncertain as to what to do. He had no reason to be in there. He had work to do.

Why had John stopped moving the sugar?

It had been almost fun.

Why had he thrown up when they'd found Molly?

Somehow, these two things became linked, even though he was not certain they actually were.

Why was John behaving so strangely? Why was he being so tolerant of Sherlock? Yes, he was his friend, the closest friend Sherlock had ever had. He knew Lestrade still didn't quite believe it – some days, Sherlock did not believe it, either. But John stayed on.

Why?

It made no sense.

He stalked back out into the living room and bit down on a curse when he realized Mrs. Hudson had nicked the skull again. He needed someone to talk to. To talk at, rather. The skull was always a good person with whom to have a conversation because it could not provide advice Sherlock did not want.

"Damn," he muttered and went back into his bedroom. Still, nothing there to do.

He changed, at least he could do that. For something to do, to move, so he could be distracted by the sensation of cool air against his skin, the new fabric. People needed to pay more attention to the information their skin could pick up, but people – other people – were often thick and daft.

He went back into the living room and glared at the place where the skull should be, then at the table where his work lay.

What was wrong with him?

He thought about John, about the desire he'd seen in John's eyes, if that's what it had been, and then John acting more normal again.

Oh.

Oh, no.

John had done that for him.

Sherlock's eyes stayed focused on the work spread out on the table.

Because he was married to his work.

He'd been _right_.

Of course he'd been right.

Reading people was his job, and his passion.

He would, he realized, have to get much better at reading himself.

He recognized suddenly that he was standing precisely halfway between the table where his work lay and the stairs leading up to John's bedroom. Sherlock stood utterly still, and told himself to step toward the table.

He didn't.

This was ridiculous, unacceptable, impossible. This sort of thing didn't happen to him. This was _why_ he had his work. It helped avoid situations like this. It was why he'd had Charles. Someone he could turn to without emotional complications. It was why he'd removed himself from any other possible relationships after Charles had gone home to France, because it was so difficult to find someone who wanted a long term, exclusively physical relationship.

Not impossible, but more trouble than it was worth. Too many potential snags.

But that's not what he wanted from John. There was no connection between John and Charles in his mind. Because for Charles, he felt nothing. He never had. He'd never even wanted to.

Sherlock had moved toward the stairs without realizing it.

He stopped and turned back.

 _No_ , he told himself.

 _Why not?_ another part of his mind asked.

He was aware of the pool of light from the lamp on the table, but it was behind him, casting shadows about the otherwise darkened flat.

He reached out for the banister then pulled his hand back. Stepped onto the first step, then back down.

Sherlock slid to a crouch, back against the wall, balanced on the balls of his feet, the light in the living room to one side, the darkness of the stairwell to the other.

What if he was wrong?

He wasn't wrong. He _knew_ he wasn't wrong.

He'd never thought like this about anyone before.

He'd never _felt_ like this about anyone before.

Why John?

_Why not John?_

He had no idea what to do. Had to do something.

He pushed himself up and went halfway up the stairs before coming back down. He paced the living room, raking a hand into his hair, then went to the stairs again, going up the first three, then coming back again.

 _Decide!_ he told himself.

He thought perhaps if he'd heard John shift in his sleep, it would have stopped him. But there was no sound from the room above, so it was almost like climbing the darkened stairwell to an empty room. Not actually empty, though, just still.

He paused just outside the door, listening, one hand on the doorknob, the brass cool against his skin.

He could hear John’s breathing, deep and steady. He hadn't been disturbed by Sherlock's presence on the stairs, which admittedly had been kept a quiet as possible.

He could turn back.

But, as with everything else in his life, he had to know. Really know.

What if going back downstairs would have been the wrong choice?

Sherlock pushed the door open carefully.

John didn't stir.

Sherlock made his way across the room in the dark, avoiding all of the creaky floorboards by habit, even though John didn't know that Sherlock knew to do that. No need to tell him how often he'd been in John's room to look for supplies for his experiments – the doctor would only have been upset. Claimed it was an invasion of his private space or something trivial like that.

He looked at John through the darkness; sleeping on his back, his right arm thrown above his head, left arm resting on his stomach on top of the duvet.  Face slightly turned away toward the window, expression relaxed. Not dreaming, sleeping deeply.

How had he not woken up when Sherlock had entered, though? Did John trust him that much? The doctor hadn't so much as moved.

Sherlock stood for another minute, just watching, no longer feeling uncertain. It was as though this moment had been set and was just waiting for him to catch up, and the whole of the future was unravelling before him, different than he'd planned or intended or even considered.

He perched on the edge of the bed, just over halfway down, his back to John, but angled so he could see the doctor easily over his shoulder.

There was another pause.

Now he was uncertain, but not about waking John up – only the how. 

Finally, he steadied himself, his voice, his heart rhythm, his breathing, and asked:

"Why did you throw up?"


	3. Rain

“Why did you throw up?”

John started abruptly from sleep.

“What?” he managed.

“Why did you throw up?”

His brain scrambled to both wake up and catch up at the same time.  He screwed his eyes shut, wondering if he were dreaming, then opened them again, trying to see through the darkness.  Dimly, he could decipher the outline of another body perched on the edge of his bed.

“Sherlock?” he asked, still trying to grasp the situation.

“Yes, of course.  I’m the only other person who lives here.  Who else would be in your room in the middle of the night?”

John pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

“Why are _you_ in my room in the middle of the night?” he asked.  The fuzziness of sleep still clung to his voice and he yawned, trying to shake if off.

“I couldn’t sleep.  Why did you throw up?”

“What in the world are you talking about?  I didn’t throw up.  I’m fine.  Or I would be, if you had left me to sleep.”

“When we pulled Molly Hooper’s body out of the Thames,” Sherlock said.  “You threw up.  I’ve been trying to figure out why, but I’ve been unable to do so.  You were an army doctor; you’ve seen far worse.  Did you throw up every time you saw a patient die in Afghanistan?  I asked myself that, too, but came to the conclusion that you couldn’t have or else you’d get no work done.  After all, even a good doctor must lose some patients.  You didn’t throw up when Sarah split from you, did you?  You weren’t emotionally attached to Molly, nor did you know her particularly well.  I suppose it could have been the connection to Moriarty and a reminder of the time he tried to kill you.”

John fell back on his pillow, covering his eyes with his hands.

“Oh my lord,” he moaned.  “You really are a sociopath.  Sherlock, that was over two months ago.  Why are you asking me this now?”

“I’ve failed to come to a conclusion regarding your actions.  And I couldn’t sleep.”

“God, what time is it?” John groaned.

“One-oh-three.”

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?” he asked.

“What if I still can’t sleep after you’ve given me your answer?  Your explanations are often insufficient, John.  I may need more information.”

“You are not making any friends here,” John muttered, rolling onto his side, burying his face in his pillow.

“I’ve already established that you’re my friend.  That isn’t in question.  Why did you throw up?”

John groaned again, giving up.

“Because it was upsetting, Sherlock.  Yes, I’ve seen worse.  That was not the first time seeing someone die has made me throw up.  But she didn’t do anything.  He murdered her because he could, to taunt you, because he knew she liked you, but that you didn’t really think about her at all.  He killed her because he thought it was funny.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then shifted in the darkness, becoming another series of lines, long legs drawn up on the side of the bed, elbows clasped loosely about his knees.

“That is true,” he said quietly.

John rolled onto his back again, passing a hand over his eyes.

“Is my answer satisfactory?” he asked, but Sherlock paid no heed to the wryness in his voice.

“More succinct than usual,” he replied.

“Thanks,” John muttered.  “Now can I sleep?”

“I suppose so, yes,” Sherlock said, and shifted again, stretching out beside him, unbidden.  John sat up halfway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to sleep.  I could not get to sleep in my own bed so a change of scenery may be required.” 

“What about the couch?” John sighed.  He knew he had lost the argument already and had long ago grown used to his flatmate’s eccentricities.  He’d certainly had less comfortable sleeping arrangements than this, too.  When he thought about it, he was surprised Sherlock hadn’t tried it before, on some previous sleepless night.  Maybe he’d just give him this damn bed and buy a new one.

“I despise that couch,” Sherlock replied.  “We need a new one.”

“Fine,” John muttered.  “But _later_.”  He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, practicing the deep breathing techniques he’d been taught so long ago, that helped him get back to sleep after some of the worst of the nightmares following combat.  After a few minutes, Sherlock’s breathing matched his own then slowed even more until the other man was asleep.  John lay in the darkness, trying to keep his jaw from tightening, but he could feel the ache creeping into his shoulder.  The faint patter of rain on the window told him why.

He tried not to shift; it wouldn’t help.  Painkillers might, but often didn’t when the weather changed suddenly.  If Sherlock hadn’t woken him he might have slept through it.

 _Dammit_ , he sighed to himself.  _Keep breathing._   John counted his breaths, ten counts per inhale, hold for ten, ten counts per exhale.  It kept the worst of the growing pain at bay but he couldn’t say for how long.

“Why are you still awake?” a voice muttered in the darkness.

John opened one eye.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I told you, I can’t sleep.”

John shifted then, groaning again but this time not at Sherlock.  The other man heard the distinction and rolled over quickly.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“My shoulder,” John sighed.

“Ah yes.  The barometer is dropping.  The storm they predicted is early.”

“I can tell,” John muttered.  He pressed his right hand over his eyes as the clatter of winter raindrops on the window grew louder.  Beside him, Sherlock shifted again and John felt a hand close very gently over his left shoulder.  The touch was light at first, gradually increasing in pressure.

“What?” he asked.

“Is it helping?” Sherlock replied.  John was silent for a moment then nodded into the darkness.

“Yes, actually.”  He could feel some of the ache drain away under the heel of Sherlock’s hand.  Vaguely, he wondered why he’d never considered trying something like this before.

“I’m assuming the same principal as applying pressure to a knotted muscle.  Scar tissue can also be broken down the routine and consistent application of pressure, which is some patients receive massage therapy after an injury or surgery.”

“Now how did you know that?” John muttered sleepily.

“I looked up the treatment of traumatic injuries after meeting you.”

“Of course you did,” John sighed.

“Do you think you could sleep now?”

“I sure hope so,” John muttered.  He closed his eyes again.  The feel of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, just short of the point of clasping too tightly, was like a balm.  John took a slow deep breath and let out even more slowly.  The rain rattled against the window even harder, joined by the wind.  Winter’s first real storm.  He listened to it, lulled somewhere between consciousness and semi-consciousness.

“Are you asleep yet?” Sherlock whispered after long minutes.  “Because I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.”

John drifted awake again, a smile tugging on his lips and he began to laugh quietly.  He could feel Sherlock prop himself on his free arm, his grip on John’s shoulder relaxing somewhat.  The ache grew again, but this time, John was less aware of it.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John chuckled and tapped the pillow beside him.

“Lie down, Sherlock,” he said.  After a moment Sherlock did so, peering at him through the darkness, one hand still on John’s left shoulder.  “Do you know what your brother asked me about your last time I saw him?”

“My brother is a complete arse and you should ignore him.”

John ignored this instead.

“He asked me if we were sleeping together.  I think next time, I may tell him yes.  Except that you won’t let me sleep.”

Sherlock chuckled and John turned his head to face his friend, aware suddenly of how close they were, of the warmth radiating from his friend’s body.  He felt the pressure on his shoulder ease and vanish, then Sherlock’s hand brushed his cheek.  John reached up and took that hand, turning his face slightly so he could kiss Sherlock’s palm.  The quiet gasp of surprise was rewarding.

He turned his head back, weaving a hand into Sherlock’s dark hair and kissing him lightly.  He felt a moment’s hesitation, out of surprise, and the hint of dryness on Sherlock’s lips that told of the encroaching winter.  He smiled, then kissed Sherlock again more deeply.

“I was right.  For someone so perceptive, you really can be quite blind,” John murmured.  “Even your brother called this one before you saw it.  What on Earth took you so long?”

Sherlock touched John’s face lightly with his fingertips and John closed his eyes, relishing the sensation, following its every detail.  Outside, the storm had grown so that the wind cried outside, outlining the windows with cold air.  The rain hammered on the roof and on the glass as if pleading to be let in.

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said.  John blinked, surprised to hear those words and even more surprised to hear Sherlock admit to them.  “I think I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the rain.”

 


End file.
